


thai

by ElephantKhaleesi



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Non-Graphic Allusions To Sex, Polyamory, also pretty angsty, anyway, but not because there's no sex or kinkiness, just praising?, like kind of praise kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 07:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8134619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElephantKhaleesi/pseuds/ElephantKhaleesi
Summary: Corey swallows reflexively and nods, wanting desperately for this conversation to be over. He's saved from having to make a verbal response by the door ringing, he doesn't think he's ever been so thankful for Thai before.--The working title for this was, "crow comfort fic".





	

**Author's Note:**

> Mental Health Issues: Story is told from the POV of a male character that suffers low self-esteem, depression, and work-related anxiety. It is a focal point of the fic, and is discussed in detail.
> 
> Polyamory/Established Relationship: Three male characters are involved in a requited romantic and sexual relationship; although it is never directly discussed, it is implied.
> 
> Non-Graphic Allusions To Sex: There is a brief scene in which consensual penetrative sexual intercourse between three male characters under the influence of alcohol is alluded to, it is not described graphically nor does it physically occur in the fic.

God, he can't help but be bitter. He worked so hard this season, performed so fucking well, and it still wasn't enough. He tries to act like it doesn't bother him, the Vezina trophy isn't the end all be all of trophies, (that title would go to Lord Stanley, but he couldn't manage to get that one either, couldn't even manage to get them past the first fucking series) and it's not like being nominated would have made him a sure thing to win it anyway, but it slides under his skin, that he wasn't good enough, had never been good enough.

He pushes it out of his mind as best he can, but the off season already seems to stretch on forever. (That's his fault too, he thinks, if he had let one less goal in, been just a little faster they could still be in it, could still have a good run in the playoffs. The weight of his failure bears down on his back, and he can't help but look at the length of their summer and be ashamed.) He prepares to spend the week wallowing; the thought of going out, doing anything feels treacherous, he doesn't want to be accused of apathy on top of everything. 

As it is he's at home, eating cheerios at 6 o'clock in the evening, and trying desperately to not hate himself (it isn't going very well, and there's a part of him that sneers nastily that he can't even do that). When the doorbell rings he panics slightly, he doesn't know why anyone would be here, hasn't planned on anyone being here, his home is kind of a mess, and he's worse; scraggly beard not yet shaved (it felt like admitting defeat and he couldn't, he couldn't do that), hair that hasn't seen a brush in days going everywhere, there's a stain on his shirt too, although he doesn't know from what. 

He approaches the door like it might explode at any moment, and really hopes the person behind it doesn't have like, a fucking camera or something, cause he really looks like shit. But thankfully (or not, cause what is he doing here) it's Jonny, and his hands are devoid of a camera. Unfortunately, it's Jonny, who takes one look at him, then pushes his way passed and into his home. At first he doesn't say anything, not about the clutter, not about the playoffs, but he zones in on the half eaten bowl of cereal on the counter with a laser-like focus and asks, “Is that all you've eaten for dinner?”

Which, hey, he's a grown man perfectly capable of feeding himself (though the knowledge that that's all he's had all day, not just for dinner, makes him feel embarrassed and cowed), he nods slowly and can't quite meet Jonny’s eyes. (He's scared of what he’ll see, scared he'll see anger or resentment or disappointment.) But Jonny doesn't seem to mind, just nods to himself like he's made a decision and says, “Okay then, how’s Thai sound?”

He doesn’t actually wait for an answer, but Corey can’t bring himself to mind, (Thai does sound good, better than stale cheerios turning soggy), just goes on ahead and dials a local takeout place. Corey isn’t really paying attention, he doesn’t know which place he ordered from or what they’re getting, he’s busy trying to tidy up the place a bit, make it look less like he hasn’t done a dish in a week. After he’s done (there’s only so much he can do without breaking out a vacuum) he heads off to his room to change into clean clothes, stops by the bathroom to brush his hair (and teeth, it feels like something died in his mouth) just trying to look moderately presentable. (His mother would not agree that he’s anywhere near presentable when he’s done, much less moderately, but it's the best he can do without leaving Jonny alone in the living room for hours.) 

Jonny’s made himself at home in his living room, he’s sitting on the couch (legs splayed wide, huge muscled thighs taking up more than his fair share) and frowning at the television, like if he glares at it long and hard enough it will turn on by the sheer intensity of his stare. It doesn’t. Corey tosses the remote in his general direction (he catches it easily, hand flying out and plucking it from the air, it reminds him of the way he stops the puck, the instinct and reflex involved, it makes his heart twinge and someone’s at the back of his head screaming “Failure! Failure! Failure!” and suddenly it's a whole lot harder to swallow and he wishes fervently that he’d just handed the damn thing to Jonny instead) then plops down heavily on the couch a decent foot or so away from Jonny. (Not that it matters, his fucking tree trunk thighs are still just a hand's breadth away, Corey curls his hands into fists and ignores the fact that Jonny’s spread himself and his giant thighs over half the couch.)

Corey flounders for a second about what to say, but Jonny steps in and rips the band aid off for him. “It wasn't your fault.”

And, it's everything he did and didn't want to hear. It's a relief, that at least his captain doesn't blame him, but there's a part of him that wants to fight. Wants to scream and shout and explain to Jonny exactly why it is his fault, why babying him won't help the team in the long run. It feels like he's split in two, he can't decide which part of him to believe, he feels raw, like Jonny flayed him open. 

He shifts uncomfortably and tries to think of a safe response (somewhere between the two), but Jonny looks at him (not piercing per say, Jonny’s always been able to have a laser like focus, and an intense dead eyed stare to go with it, but it feels analytical, like he's trying to figure out the best play; it's not like Patrick, who sometimes looks at him like he's glass, straight through him, a perfect view of all the thoughts and emotions he keeps locked inside, a zoo animal trapped for his perusal, and he’s suddenly fiercely glad Pat isn't here, because he'd know exactly what to do to make him better and as fucked up as he knows it is, he doesn't want to be better, he deserves to suffer for letting down the team and Pat wouldn't let him do that) and says, “It wasn't. The whole team could have been better, it wasn't just you. You're just one person, you couldn't have won for us, and you didn't lose it for us. You get that, right?”

Corey swallows reflexively and nods, wanting desperately for this conversation to be over. He's saved from having to make a verbal response by the door ringing, he doesn't think he's ever been so thankful for Thai before. He ignores Jonny’s stupid frowny face and rushes up to get the door.

The plan ultimately backfires because when he swings his front door open wide, Pat is standing there, holding what looks to be enough take out containers to feed an army (the bags actually look like they're starting to tear from the strain of the weight, and he can only see the top of Pat’s curls over the edge of brown paper, he wants to snort at the ridiculousness of the image). 

When Pat huffs in irritation, Corey reaches and takes one of the bags from his arms, then steps aside to let him in. He shoots a look at Jonny, tries to push as much of his betrayal into it as possible, as he starts spreading out the takeout containers on the kitchen table. 

By the time they're all gathered around the table and eating, Jonny across from him and Pat to his left, the whole room is tense. He knows it’s probably his fault, he hasn't been able to meet Pat's eyes once, is actively avoiding looking up from his food and stuffing his face with it so he doesn't have to talk. Corey tries to drag out the odd, taut strain as long as he can, he doesn't want to have the, fucking intervention or whatever, that they're trying to have with him.

He wishes it was just Jonny, Jonny would let him sit in silence all meal, let him put this off as long as he wanted, but Pat doesn't even let him entertain the idea. He puts his fork down on his plate and stands up, then gracelessly climbs onto Corey’s lap, all awkward elbows and a close call with his left knee that makes Corey yelp in panic anyway, because shit, that was close. 

Pat glares at him for it, throws out a, “You’re such a baby,” but it’s soft and fond and exasperated and Corey has to close his eyes against it, against the emotion in Pat’s words, a sudden well of too much that has him gritting his teeth together. (It’s there, in the back of his head, a steady stream of hate that reminds him exactly why this whole situation, this ridiculous fucking situation, came to be and he wants to shove Pat off his lap, scream in his face, tell him how fucking stupid he’s being, even trying with a sack of shit like Corey, who can’t do anything right, not hockey, the only thing he’s supposed to fucking do right, and sure as fuck not them.)

Pat notices in the sharp eyed way he notices everything, frames Corey’s face with his hands and drags his head up so that he can stare intently at Corey’s wrinkly eyelids, takes his time to track the way his lashes fall on his cheekbones, like all the answers are written in the angles of his face (Corey still doesn’t know what the questions are). Then slowly, like Pat’s giving him a chance to twist away or flee (he needn’t have bothered, Corey’s rooted to the spot, the proverbial deer in the headlights, he can only imagine what stupid expression his face has, only imagine what it’d be like to run), he leans in and peppers his face with gentle kisses. Soft little things he can barely feel, no more than the brush of lips against his eyelids, a breath of air across his nose, the catch of his beard when Pat tries to trail his jaw.

His mouth forms a small smile without his permission at the way Pat’s face scrunches up in displeasure, he can see in his mind’s eye how this would have played out in a different time and place; high off the exhilaration of a win, maybe not the cup but close, something far more decent and respectable than the first fucking series, Pat tipsy from too much tequila, sprawled in his lap, pressing sloppy kisses across his face, then finally scraping his mouth against Corey’s beard and twisting away, groaning dramatically in disgust. In this version, he wraps an arm around Pat’s waist, traps him against his chest and rubs his scruff on Pat’s cheek, just to listen to his squeals (of delight, Pat can’t front at all when he’s drunk, he’d be all breathy and pink faced, unable to hold a glare at Corey, mouth stretched out in a smile despite the way he turned away from Corey’s face), only stopping when Pat ducks his head underneath his chin, rubbing his own beard against Corey’s neck, and grinning delightedly when Corey laughs and he can feel the rumble as if it were his own. In this version, Jonny sits a few feet away, slumped back in his chair, legs spread wide, a beer in one hand placed carefully over his lap, the other hanging over the top of the chair. His eyes track them with a heavy lidded look, and eventually he catches Corey’s gaze. In this version, they fuck on the kitchen table, it’s happy and sloppy and unsanitary, filled with breathless laughter, they break a chair, and the next day Jonny complains nonstop about the giant bruise on his back, but he does it more for the way Pat and Corey break out into a chorus of cackles at the memory than out of any actual grievance. (It’s perfect.) 

This isn’t that version though. Pat runs his fingers through Corey’s hair and presses a kiss to the top of his down turned head (he doesn’t know when that happened, when his head dropped down onto Pat’s chest), and Corey doesn’t even need to see Pat’s face to know his brows are pulled together in concern and that his eyes are sad. He wants to scream again, at this awful parody of what could have happened (what should have happened, if he was better, if he didn’t ruin it).

He grinds his teeth together, he wants this to stop, he wants to be left alone; to sulk and wallow and suffer. He doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve them. Pat murmurs against his neck, “Stop thinking.”

And Corey wants to laugh, laugh, laugh because that’s the one thing he can’t seem to do these days; his mind feels like a whirring computer, fans going at a thousand miles an hour to keep it from smoking, from burning up. Even know, with Pat in his lap (he’s angry, more than anything else he’s angry; at the world, at the Blues, at Tare-fucking-sanko, at himself, more than anything at himself, because he ruins things, he ruins everything he can get his grubby fingers on, and he wants Pat and Jonny to get away, far, far away, before he can ruin them too) his mind goes, goes, goes; it obsesses and repeats like a record caught on a track, and he wishes he could just stop. If he could just stop thinking (stop the words that spew their hatred against his temples, paint his failures across the backs of his eyelids) he would. 

Pat wraps his arms around his neck, and squeezes, like he thinks Corey is gonna disappear out from under him. He holds him for a long while, then presses a real kiss to his mouth, pulls back just far enough to whisper, “Oh baby, baby you’re perfect.”

Corey wants to open his mouth and argue it, ask Pat if he’s feeling alright, but his jaw is riveted shut and he can’t tell if it's because he knows it would be futile to fight him on this, or if it’s because the words feel like a bandage, wrapping up wounds he didn’t even realize he was bleeding from. (He can tell.) 

Pat curls impossibly closer, like he’s trying to crawl inside Corey’s chest and make his home there, and whispers loving, kind words into his ear, that Corey knows he isn’t worthy of, doesn’t deserve in the slightest, but with Pat’s lips brushing against the shell of his ear, and his words curling warm in his belly, it doesn’t seem so important.

He startles when Jonny comes up behind him and sneaks his arms between the two of them, (and for one brief moment he thinks Pat’s going to bite him for doing so) holds on and presses kisses to the top of his head, muttering all the while, “You’re so good, so fucking good”.

For the first time, in a long ass time Corey can’t hear anything but them, their words whispered almost reverently against his skin, and he feels like he’s gonna fucking burst because he knows they fucking believe every goddamn word. He’s glad when Pat pulls back and says nothing as he brushes away the tear tracks curving down his cheeks and vanishing into his beard.

Jonny rubs Pat on the back and they have an unspoken conversation (mainly consisting of excessive eyebrow movements and pointed squinting, and he wants to laugh at their antics; the desire catches in his throat and Corey feels more tears well into his eyes because he hasn’t wanted to laugh out of happiness in what feels like an age and a half) over his shoulder. Coming to an agreement Pat slips off Corey’s lap, grabs his hand and tugs him up to his feet as well. He leads him down the hallway to his room (he has a ridiculous urge to rush ahead and tidy up before they get there, wishes he cleaned up the place earlier when he still had the chance), Jonny pressed so tightly to his back that they both stumble once on their way, Pat snorting in amusement and rolling his eyes in faux exasperation. (He loves it. He loves them.)

When they get there, Pat crawls onto the bed, and Jonny’s quick to lightly push Corey down too, like he’s afraid the sight of Pat curled on his side and staring dazedly up at them is what’s going to make him bolt. He closes his eyes, and while he can hear and feel them moving, shuffling on the bed, moving him to get him right where they want him, he lays there like a dead weight, suddenly far too tired to do much else.

Finally they seem satisfied, and Corey opens his eyes to the sight of Pat snuggled in close to his chest and he can feel the front of Jonny shift against his back. It still feels like too much, but they’re a comforting presence around him, and its grounding because he knows there isn’t anything he can do to make them leave (not that he would ever, even at his worst when all he wants is for them to get the fuck away from him, he wouldn’t dare, would be far too frightened that they’d take him up on the offer and leave and never come back; it keeps him up on the nights they can’t be with him).

He can tell Pat’s sleepy too, but he noses at the underside of Corey’s jaw and talks. He says wonderful, awful things, it feels like he lays there for hours listening to the soft warble of Pat’s voice, telling him how amazing he is, how strong, how beautiful, how perfect. When Pat’s voice finally tapers off and he slips into sleep, Corey is fully expecting to open his eyes to the light of early morning, his head feels full and stuffy like a nap that lasted too long, he imagines that if he lifted his arm he would break cobwebs that have formed in the eternity they’ve spent wrapped around each other. But when he opens his eyes, he can see nothing in the dark of the night.

Jonny curls closer around Corey's back, so that they're pressed flushed together, digs his face into the crook of his neck and whispers into the skin there, “I didn’t, I'm not good at,” he stops, tries again, “I don't know how to help when you're like this, I don't know what -” 

He exhales forcefully in frustration, doesn't know how to put his emotions into words, and Corey gathers up his left hand, curls their fingers together, and brings it to his lips to press a kiss onto the back of it.

“I know. That's okay though, that's what Pat's for.” Jonny reaches his free arm (the one that isn't trapped under Corey's head, and captured by his hands) over, all the way to where Pat is gone to the night already and snuggled into Corey's chest and wraps his arm as best he can over the two of them, drags Pat closer. 

He's tired, and it’s a struggle to keep his eyes open, but he looks at the two of them and thinks that he's going to remember this moment when they're all old and wrinkled. Just them, curled together and half asleep and happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically just self-indulgent schmoop fic because I was sad at the end of last season.
> 
> This was actually supposed to be finished before the end of the 2015-2016 Stanley Cup Finals, but I am an awful human being and it just sat on my laptop until now, at the literal start of the 2016-17 season, when the crushing guilt finally spurred me into finishing it, so its long overdue. It's definitely not polished or refined at all, in any way, but it is done.
> 
> I have a tumblr I spend too much time on; same handle, feel free to come visit.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
